


Car-Crashed Hearts

by DegenerateBible



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: M/M, Multi, OT3, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DegenerateBible/pseuds/DegenerateBible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone ever told Bruce he would one day fall into bed with a scarred maniac and a doctor with morals threadbare at best, he would've probably decked him. Collection of one-shots highlighting Crane/Joker/Bruce's relationship, some connected, some not. Don't like? Don't read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment with any requests and feedback is always appreciated and taken into consideration.

…  
He watches them both. He's huddled in the window of Crane's flat, hunched over like a black gargoyle. His eyes rove over the two figures in the bed.

The sheets only cover Jonathan Crane's tall body halfway, white t-shirt riding up just enough to show off light hair glowing in the lamp left the bedside table. It leaves a faint, honey-colored hue over everything, clashing with the milky glow of the moon.One arm is perched behind his head; the other tangled in the Joker's hair. Jonathan is surprisingly the more dominant of the two and the Joker burrows into his body heat as if he can somehow merge them into one.

A sleeping Joker is a rare sight. Bruce takes a moment to admire the smoothness of his face, the dirty blonde hair so different from the toxic green. One of his small, deadly hands is gripped loosely in the fabric near Crane's heart and it should be wrong that those murderous hands could be so gentle. A gust of wind passes over the vigilante in the window, shooting straight through his armor. The Joker shivers under the covers as it hits him, stirring but not regaining consciousness.

"Are you going to stay crouched like that all night?" A sleep stricken voice inquires quietly in the dark. His eyes trail away from the Joker to Jonathan, who is looking at him with a half-smirk and tired eyes.

"I didn't plan on it." The smile he offers must seem out of place against the gruffness of his voice but he pushes these thoughts away, stepping whisper-quiet into the room. It is much warmer in here and he knows it has nothing to do with the number displayed on the thermostat, rather the two people occupying the space. "I see you got him to bed." He is taking off his armor as quietly as possible, stripping out of Kevlar, leaving behind the rooftops and blurry bat signals if only for a few hours.

The doctor wears a proud smile, running a hand fondly through the harlequin's hair. "Yes. And trust me, it was no easy feat."

The Joker doesn't sleep. He would have nightmares of repressed memories rising to the surface of his skipping-like-a-bad-record mind. He would scream and kick, barely contained by Bruce and Jonathan's restraining limbs. And he would cry, large mournful tears over someone he used to be but can barely remember. They wouldn't be able to touch him for days.

Seeing him soundly asleep with no tension on his brow made Bruce more grateful to his lover than words could ever express.  
But there are rules to this love. There are reasons he removes the armor before surrendering himself completely, reasons the Joker does not wear his make-up in bed, reasons Jonathan does not discuss his fear toxin in front of Bruce.

It's a dangerous game they're playing and they are aware. If Bruce ever foresaw himself falling into bed with a scarred man with a love of destruction and a doctor who twisted minds, with morals threadbare at best, he would never believe it. Yet, as he slips under the covers the normal nagging regret that normally occupied his mind for a quick second isn't there. He decides to blame it on the fatigue and the slight tension in his temples.The Joker shifts as the bed dips, mumbling incoherently in his sleep and looking surprisingly vulnerable. He shuffles into Bruce, retracting immediately afterward, eyelids fluttering.

"Bats?" he whines quietly, "You're cold."

There are bruises on his flesh. Bruce knows because he is the one who put them there a day ago. His calloused fingers brush over the Joker's bare side, rubbing the material of his t-shirt between his fingers before ghosting over the yellowed patches of skin he can't see in the dark but knows is there.

"Go back to sleep J," Jonathan says softly, running his long fingers over the clown's scalp, eliciting a noise dangerously close to a purr. He turns over, once again nuzzling into Crane.

It will be dawn in only two hours and Bruce needs all the sleep he can get.

"G'night," he slurs to each man, reaching over and stealing a barely there kiss from Jonathan's lips and planting his lips to Joker's forehead. He gets mumbled, sleep-drunk replies whispered in the dark as if they are sacred.

"See you in the morning Bats."

Bruce does not know why, but it feels like he is promised something that he has longed for, and it echoes in his mind even after he is asleep.  
…


	2. Thunderstorms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, Jonathan, and Joker dealing with the aftermath of Joker getting attacked in Arkham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentioned attempted sexual assault. Nothing graphic, it’s just being discussed. And to cheer you up you get Bruce and Joker making out on the couch. But you have to read to the end to see because I’m evil like that.

…  
His fingers graze whisper soft against the smooth flesh. He’s enraptured by his skin, the number of scars it can contain and bruises it can heal. It’s late, after three, and Bruce has a board meeting in the morning and another lie to conjure up to appease Alfred’s worried face. He tries to ignore both, tries not wince as whimpers escape his lover’s scarred mouth. He trails his calloused hands through blonde-green curls, over his bare torso. Deep purple contusions blossom just under the Joker’s flesh brought by fist made to break. Bruce never means to break him. He knows the Joker is already a shattered mosaic. 

“It’s not your fault Bruce,” a voice says behind him, the timber rough and warm. Bruce turns to see Jonathan leaning his tall body against the doorframe. He needs to shave; brown stubble protrudes from his jaw and cheeks. In his large hands he holds a thick book and his glasses. Bruce barks a bitter laugh, his fingers stilling. 

“Then whose fault is it?” he asks, voice low as his dark eyes flow from Crane’s gaze to the Joker’s lithe body. The madman’s eyes are closed, his breaths rough and uneven. “You told me not to bring him there. He told me not to bring him there.” He gazes out the window, thanking whatever being he’s stopped believing in that there is no blurry signal tonight. “If it’s not my fault, then whose is it?” 

“The guards,” Jonathan answers, stepping further into the room. “Those animals at Arkham who put their hands on him, those bastards. It’s their fault. Not yours.” He sits down on the bed, sighing as he gazes at their lover. “Jay,” he says, brushing his lips against his forehead. “Why do you always have to make us worry about you?” Bruce reflects on how much Jonathan has changed since he’d first met him. He’s broader now, no longer as thin, no longer full of fear. He is protective of the clown almost to a fault and he’s smarter about his crimes, still dealing his toxin but remaining underground and on the run. 

“What’s the book?” The vigilante asks, peering at the volume. Jonathan manages a rough chuckle, crawling further into the bed and guiding Bruce with him. 

“When Joker and I were in Arkham, we were put in a cell together. The guards thought it was funny. They thought we would kill each other but the opposite happened. And we wreaked hell when they tried to separate us. Anyway, I would steal books from the library and read to him some nights. He’d never tell you this but he’s terrified of thunder storms so we read a lot of books. And one day some guards tried to touch him in the showers and he almost killed one of them. The others beat the shit out of him and wouldn’t take him to the infirmary. That night I read him Edgar Allen Poe and he said it was his favorite so I found it and bought it for nights like this.” 

Bruce stares at blanket as Crane talks, allows his voice to sooth the nugget of guilt inside of him. 

“Well maybe he wasn’t afraid of thunderstorms,” Crane continues, fingering a particularly ugly bruise on the Joker’s collarbone. The green-haired man shifts, trying to either bury further into the contact or break away. “The storms are loud there since we’re near the water so it’s hard to hear when patients yell for water or…”

“Scream for help,” The billionaire finishes, quietly. “Jonathan…” He doesn’t know what he planned to say. The criminal’s name hangs heavy in the silence.  
Jonathan looks at him, brown eyes bright and understanding. He sighs, the sound shredded and worn, and guides his lover’s hand to the Joker’s hair when he starts to fidget. They both feel chaos embodied calm under their fingertips. 

“No, Bruce. They’ve never sexually assaulted him and no, nights like this don’t happen a lot but they do happen. He can handle this. He knows what he signed up for.” Then softer, but assured, his fingers rubbing soothing circles on the billionaire’s wrists. “We all know what we signed up for.” 

He kisses him and turns out the light.  
…  
Later, it’s a little after six and the sky seems to be bleeding pastel sunrise, the room is flooded with light. Bruce has not slept. He sits in the living room, large hands pouring over revenue documents and audit findings, how Fox is keeping all the spending for their “army venture” under wraps to avoid another Coleman Reese situation, Arkham blue-prints. He has too many things to focus on, a board meeting in two hours that he knows he won’t make and a worried surrogate father in a vast and empty house.  
He considers leaving, making more coffee, watching TV, but his thoughts are whirling too much. He wills his eyes to focus on the numbers displayed on the wrinkled white paper, wishing everything in life were that black and white. He hears footsteps creaking down the stairs and he is already prepared to tell an excuse to a worried Jonathan. But it isn’t Jonathan. 

The Joker stands a few steps from the bottom groggily fisting his eyes. “I was, ah, thirsty,” he says, his throat a bit rough to prove it but his voice still containing that nasally twang. He walks the last few steps and pauses again, staring at the piles of papers littering the coffee table. He’s dressed in only one of Crane’s Oxford shirts, the first button undone, sleeves pulled up to his elbows and a pair of purple boxers. He walks over to Bruce and straddles his lap, flashing a smile. Those deep green eyes bore into Bruce’s saying so much and nothing, taking in everything and Bruce does not like feeling this exposed. He focuses instead on the Joker’s thin legs, the hips shifting underneath his grip.

“It’s not your fault ya know,” The Joker says, tone surprisingly serious and Bruce cannot bear to look at him. 

“Have you been talking to Jonathan?” he asks, but the Joker shakes his head like a child, nuzzling into the vigilante’s shoulder and inhaling deeply. 

“Nope. Johnny’s in the shower and I just woke up. But come on, a blind man could see you’re feeling guilty and I’m saying don’t. I’m a big boy Bruce and I can handle whatever I get myself into and as much as you may hate it, you have to keep putting me in there.” 

Bruce yells a protest and the Joker kisses him, sudden and hard, wrapping his arms around his lover’s neck and breaking it just as abruptly. “I know you don’t want to. Trust me, I do, but it would look mighty suspicious if suddenly you couldn’t catch me anymore don’t ya think? We all got jobs to do Bruce and yours just happens to be putting bad guys in Arkham and I’m definitely a bad guy.” 

“You’re not all bad,” the billionaire says, only half-joking, his lips planting kisses on the Joker’s throat. The clown shifts, moaning as Bruce’s hands only press harder against his hips, pressing against the bruises and keeping him in place. He feels Bruce’s hands brush under his shirt, stroking the tender skin, his hardening nipples. He whimpers, sinking his teeth into his lover’s throat, eliciting a moan as he begins to rock against the vigilante’s lap. 

“Bruce,” he says, breathless, urgent, “Come to bed. I wanna make Jonathan all dirty again.” The grin he offers is feral, and manic, and wanting. Bruce is mesmerized by it, the destruction and love that smile seems to hold simultaneously. He allows that smile to make him rise from the couch, that smile to lead him up the stairs, that smile to assuage his guilt because he knows they all know exactly what they signed up for.  
…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that’s it. Hoped ya liked it because these boys are my ultimate OT3 and I have so many ideas for this series. Comments are greatly appreciated and don’t be afraid to shoot me requests. I’m thinking the next one will be Jonathan having a panic attack or something like that. Jonathan just needs to be taken care of. I mean with him having to constantly take care of a guilty billionaire and a destructive clown, someone should take care of him once and a while. Am I right?


	3. Bomb Love

It's poker night. The one night a month the rogue's gallery of Gotham emerges from their perspective slums and gather in some uneasy truce at someone's house. This night it's at Jonathan Crane's flat.

It's a little after midnight and they are all gathered around a large circular table brought out from the basement for just the occasion. Penguin is leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigar. Two-face is rigid, nervously fiddling his coin in his hand. Hatter wears a broad grin, his hat on the floor behind him, red hair sticking up at all angles. Ivy and Catwoman sit between Harley Quinn, and attempt some form of comfort while offhandedly playing with chips and shooting each other knowing, exasperated glances.

"I just don't know," Harley says, running a hand through her blonde hair, exposing her cards to everyone at the table and looking very nearly close to tears. The men groan. They've heard this before.

"I haven't seen him in weeks!" she cries. "This isn't like Mistah J at all."

Everyone is silent and regarding each other, daring the others to intervene first.

"Oh Harley," Ivy says finally, tucking a strand of hair behind her friend's ear. "Joker always does this. At least he's not knocking you around right now."

"Perhaps," Crane says at the head of the table and his voice commands attention like no other. They turn to him as he unhurriedly shuffles his cards and adjusts his glasses. "Perhaps he just needs space."

"Space?" Harley cries, as if the very notion were horrifying. "From me? Why Dr. Crane? What could be so important that he doesn't need me?"

And Crane smirks but says nothing.

"If the Joker is busy," Penguin says wearily, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling, "that means he's planning something. Something big."

"Then we should hear about it soon enough," Hatter replies and throws more chips into the pile, "now are we here to talk about the only one of us who's too insane to receive an invite to these little soirees or are we gonna play some poker?"

The game continues. Crane, as always, is winning. Two-face is following close behind and the chips pile up on both sides. The others fold soon after and are now watching the two men intently, making side bets as to who's going to win. It's not camaraderie they feel. They all have guns or knives or poisons up sleeves and in holsters. But for now this is the closest they ever feel. It's peaceful.

Then they hear the footsteps on the stairs.

They're consistent and ominous, the creaking of the old wood and the hand sliding down the rail. Crane looks up with a concerned but unsurprised look on his face. Penguin nudges him with the butt of his cigar and laughs.

"You got some girl upstairs doc?"

The steps cease.

"If he did, I would have killed her by now."

The Joker stands with a lopsided grin at their expressions of terror. He's wearing a pair of purple boxers and one of Crane's Oxford, the top 3 buttons undone, the sleeves pulled up to the elbows. He's recently showered, his hair damp green-ish blonde ringlets, his face mostly devoid of paint. The Rogue's gallery is silent at the sight of him, a combination of seeing him maskless for the first time, his attire, his sudden appearance. Ivy is taken aback by how young he must be, Two-Face is shocked by how lean he is, the suits always making him appear broader. The others are mostly caught up by the naked scars rippling up his cheeks.

"Mistah J?" Harley asks, her voice trembling in reverence of him. Her eyes go glassy again and for a second it seems that she might cry. But she remembers tears annoy him. "What are you doing here?"

The silence that follows is lethal. No one moves. Finally, Joker stretches and yawns and turns to Crane, who is staring at him amusedly.

"Having a party without me doc?" He asks, fixing the doctor with an unreadable smile.

"I figured you'd be in bed by now," The doctor replies, rising from his chair. He is taller than the Joker they all realize. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"They hurt."

"Do they?" The doctor raises a challenging brow. "I did them myself."

"Mistah J where have ya been?" Harley cries and approaches him. He stares at her blankly, fingers twitching at his sides.

When she goes to touch him a hand stops her. But it isn't Joker's. Crane has her hand in a death grip, his stare cold behind the glint of his glasses.

"Don't," he says icily, "don't touch him."

She retracts her hand as if it were burned. The two men stare at her before Crane says, "Go into the kitchen. Let me have a look at them."

The Joker obeys him and the silence makes the room so heavy that for long moments nobody speaks.  
The kitchen is right next to the dining room and they can all see the clown seat himself on the island, offhandedly swinging his legs like a child. Crane goes to him, taps his thigh twice with one finger and the Joker obediently spreads his legs for the doctor to stand between them.

Harley is frozen in place, silent tears tracking down her supple cheeks. Ivy wants to reach out to her but doubts the safety in doing so.

"Let me have a look," Crane purrs, deftly undoing the buttons of Joker's shirt til his lean and muscled torso is exposed for all to see. His chest is a network of ugly scars and bruises in different stages of healing.

"The Bat really had his way with you," Crane remarks and there's something in his voice, equal parts possessiveness and something else the other criminals can't quite name and probably never will.

The Joker chuckles. "Doesn't he always?"

Crane doesn't answer him, instead probing at the freshly done stitches on his side. The Joker doesn't wince until he presses down just a tad too forcefully.

"Well," the doctor says finally, "I can put more numbing agent on it later. Just let it breathe and try not to get it wet."

"I was careful in the shower."

"I meant with blood," The doctor replies with a devilish grin and begins buttoning his shirt again.

"Wait," Joker whines, sounding so young that the other criminals are immediately taken aback. "You didn't kiss it." And they level each other with a stare, Crane seemingly asking him just how much he wanted to hurt the sad blonde bimbo he keeps around for some reason.

But Jonathan would be lying if he said he could resist the wide green eyes staring at him with so much mischief. There's an audible gasp in the room when he leans down and ceremoniously kisses the stitches on the Joker's side and dead silence when he grabs the Joker's hair in a vice grip and kisses his exposed neck and then his defenseless lips.

"Now," Crane hums against his cheek and his easily picks up the clown and places him securely on the ground, "Off to bed."

"Johnny –"  
"How do you expect to play with the Bat tomorrow if you can barely stand?"

The Joker seems to concede his point and finally lifts his eyes to the subpar specimen seated at the table. A slowed pleased smile takes over his lips as they all avoid his gaze.

"Sorry to interrupt you're little game boys and girls," he says.  
"Joker how could –!" A knife whizzes just shy of Catwoman's ear, so close she can feel the breeze as it goes by, digging into the wall behind her.

"Careful," Crane purrs, looking very pleased and very, very dangerous. Harley runs away sobbing, out the door which hangs open long after her retreat.

The Joker's eyes are dark green, another knife poised calmly in his hand. Jonathan comes to stand behind him, easing the knife from his grasp and laying it on the counter. He whispers something into the madman's ears and whatever it is, it seems to appease him enough to send him up the stairs.

"Crane, what the fuck are you doing with him?" Penguin asks after the lethal quiet has gone on long enough to be unbearable.

The doctor turns to him with a challenging grin. "You really want to know?"

"What he means is," Hatter interjects, looking nervously at his companions for support, "what are you getting out of this?"

_The same thing we get out of these half-peaceful poker nights,_ Crane almost wants to say, just a little bit of solace and care. But these people are not his friends. He does not trust them. So instead he arches one eyebrow, offers a wolfish grin and hardens his voice.

"You better leave."

And he watches as they grab their money and chips and head for the door. But not before making plans for next month's game at Hatter's abode. Because even if they're not friends, they are the closest thing.


	4. Beginning

All love stories have a beginning. Theirs starts one summer day at dusk.

Crane is on the rooftop of his apartment complex, smoking a joint and watching the sun sink below the horizon. The Joker is downstairs, sedated, asleep. Two days before, Batman had nearly killed the clown, beaten him within an inch of his life before unceremoniously dropping him at Crane's doorstep.

"Twenty-three stitches," Crane says aloud and whistles, remembering himself running his fingers over the sewn flesh. A warm wind blows, billowing his shirt and the smoke. Jonathan wants to wake him so they can see the sun set together but Joker always cared more for dawn, for the darkness giving way to the light.

He hears the rippling of the cape before the Bat even speaks. He doesn't ask how he found them, that would be irrelevant. It does not matter how or why he is here. The only thing that matters is what he has to say.

"Batman," Crane says, not turning to look at the vigilante standing solidly behind him. He takes another pull of the joint before flicking it over the ledge and running a hand through his hair, tone merciless. "Come to finish the job? Kill two kooks with one stone?"

The Bat does not answer. His gloved fists clench at his sides, the same anger, the same shame.  
"Don't worry. J's asleep. Has to be after the hell you put him through."

Impure silence follows: they are quiet and still, but Gotham is hungry and loud beneath them. Cars, sirens, yells, someone running, someone blaring a horn, obscenities, sighs, something slams, someone cries.

He hears the Bat approach him, the heavy steps. The sun sinks lower, a molten orange ball behind pastel clouds. Their shadows are cast long against the gravel.

"I didn't mean to –"

"Batshit," Crane says coolly, cruelly, "you meant to do it, even if you don't know it. You know, somewhere deep down under all the ethics and notions of justice and morals, that you love us. You love me and you love him and you _can't fucking stand it._  So you think that killing us would be better than loving us. That it's noble, that the blood would not be on your hands. But guess what. It was on my hands. Joker's blood as nearly he died on my kitchen counter." His vision goes blurry with sudden tears. He stops, remembering all the fucking blood.

The Bat is at his side now, still standing, but his hand drops to the doctor's shoulders saying…saying what? What was there to say? Crane rises until they're chest to chest, breathing the same air. He smells of cannabis and cigarettes, bad coffee and sweat. Bruce knows these scents as his just as he knows the Joker smells of gasoline, money, smoke. Just as he knows when they fuck in back alleys, which man likes what being done to them, and what they enjoy doing to him.

"You don't have to love us," Crane says finally, looking him in the eye, "Hell you don't even have to fuck us." He rises to his full height, gaze murderous. "But I'll slit your throat myself right now if it means you'll never try to kill him again."

Bruce knows this is not a bluff. He also knows that this is not an outright end, rather he is being given a choice. The choice that means he can either choose to be the pillar of justice Gotham needs or the man he truly is, the mortal he is, the mortal that in this instant wants to kiss the doctor till neither of them could breathe.

"I won't," The Bat says finally, softly, near tears himself. "I didn't want to. I could never. I…I love him too much and you. I just can't believe that out of all the people in the world I've fallen in love with two…two…"

"Two criminals, terrorists, murderers…men?" Crane says, and smiles. One hand travels to the back of the vigilante's neck as he pulls them closer and whispers hotly, "The world's a bitch isn't it?"

Bruce kisses him them, long and deep, tongue and teeth. His hands cinch at the doctor's waist, the doctor bites his lips till blood is drawn. Retaliation no doubt but he deserves it.

Jonathan pushes him away roughly. He's a little high and the sun is completely gone now, but he looks at Bruce soberly, the most serious he's ever been. His hair glows amber from the streetlights and the ones on this roof.

"Bruce fucking Wayne I'm asking you this once. Are Joker and I just some back alley fucks or do you want to be with us?"

They stare at each other for what seems to be an eternity. Bruce thinks of Rachel, Alfred, his parents, and Gordon. He thinks of what they'd think if they saw him fucking or kissing or loving these men. He thinks of Jonathan, his brilliance and ruthlessness and perpetually skewed glasses. He thinks of Joker downstairs, bandaged and bruised for his own insecurity, all the dead bodies between them. All the more that'll pile up even after this affair turns something more.

He removes his cowl slowly, holds it under his arm. His hair is stuck to his head from sweat but he does not care. He wants Jonathan to know how serious he is.

"Yes," he says roughly, "I want to be with you both, forever. I love you both. I know that I won't always agree or like what you're doing. And I know that my judgement won't stop you. I can either pretend like I don't need you both or I can let it drive me insane. But I love you. I really fucking love you. Let me show you."

They wake the Joker, Bruce with his mouth on his nipples, Crane with his hands on his cock. They fuck him tenderly, like two people desperately holding on to a precious thing nearly lost. Then they fuck each other, on the floor, the stairs, in the bathroom, against the kitchen counter. It's messy and it hurts and heals and reaffirms everything.

It's dawn when they find themselves half naked on the kitchen floor, backs against the cabinets. Light floods through the half-opened blinds. Jonathan and Bruce are drinking coffee, the Joker rises and opens the window before lighting a cigarette.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, gazing at the bruises and stitches, imagining all the spilled blood. The Joker turns to him, smoke streaming from his mouth as he does so. "I didn't mean to. You know I could never."

"I know," Joker says, softly, his hair green-blonde ringlets illuminated by early morning. He pulls on his cigarette and says, "I could never either. That goes for you too Doc."

"I'm flattered," Crane says with an eye-roll. He rises and kisses the clown, steals the cigarette for a quick drag before handing it back with another kiss.

Bruce watches the intimacy in the exchange, the two figures outlined by fresh sunlight. 

They are two forces of nature, creatures of the kill in their own right, have murdered people without much thought and absolutely no remorse. But oh how tenderly they treat each other, and him, in these private holy moments.

Their heads turn to him almost in tandem, looking peaceful and sleepy. Joker is wearing his T-shirt. Crane stands in only a pair of sweats.

"Join us?" Jonathan says, gesturing to the window where the two criminals stand, watching the day unfold.  
Bruce does not hesitate to join them. They watch the day get made anew, not once worrying what it would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/requests always welcome


	5. Chapter 5

“You interest me Crane,” Edward Nygma says one night in Crane’s flat. They’re in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of bourbon between them. They aren’t friends per say. That would require trust. Rather they’ve reached an uneasy truce. Jonathan is barefoot in dress slacks and a T-shirt, his hair tucked behind his ears, his glasses resting on the countertop. Nygma is also casual, a pair of worn jeans and a bright orange T-shirt allowing him to navigate the Narrows seen but unrecognized. 

He’d knocked on the door an hour before, his signature hat and a brown bottle in his hands, saying, “looks like we both took the night off. Care for some company?” 

Now, Crane leans against the island, a tumbler in his hands. He looks up, a hint of a smirk on his face, a sarcastic raise of eyebrow. 

“Do I?” he says and takes a swig of his drink, “pray tell.” 

“It’s been months hasn’t it?” Nygma asks, a devious smile on his face, “Months of you being with _him_ I mean.” 

“Surprised he hasn’t killed me yet?” Crane asks disinterestedly, though in the back of his mine he is in awe. It has been months, almost half a year. 

It’s late, a little after 3 AM and the house is otherwise silent. Outside there’s the wail of sirens and car horns in the distance, gunfire and bomb blasts making the cups in the cupboards shake. They barely notice. 

“Honestly?” Nygma says, “Yes. But no. There’s something else. A riddle I’ve been trying to solve.” 

Crane barks a laugh, shakes his head in dismissive amusement. “Yes, you and your riddles.” 

“Yes me and my riddles. But what I haven’t been able to figure out is how you let him go out every night and chase _him_.” 

Him. The man in black. The Bat. No doubt they’re out right now, Crane thinks, a fond smile on his face. 

His boys. Tearing the goddamn city apart. 

“You think I’m the jealous type?” Crane says, genuinely curious, pouring more in both their glasses. 

Nygma laughs so hard his hat comes off. His hair a greasy ginger. There’s something malicious about the laugh. About the shadows on his face, the weak light coming from a naked bulb above their heads. 

“Crane you and I both know you’re a possessive bastard,” he takes a sip of his drink, gauging the doctor’s reaction before going on. “So what I’m trying to figure out how you, the Jonathan Crane, could allow that maniac to go out night after night to throw himself at that rat with wings.” 

He’s not asking. There’s no question. Rather an unspoken implication. But what exactly, Crane is unsure. He wonders how drunk Nygma must be, how drunk he himself must be. The once-full bottle already half gone. 

“Unless you’re sharing him. In which case…” 

He thinks Nygma is bluffing. He’s too smart to make a move on the clown. Trying to get under his skin perhaps? But no, there’s a badly hidden leer, a maliciousness, a longing. He’s too drunk to be coy now. 

Nygma drains his glass, a distraction from the near-admission. Jonathan finishes his own drink in one swallow and grimaces, thinks what hell it will be tending to wounds while drunk. Perhaps they’ll go to Wayne’s manor tonight. Let him nurse his eventual hangover in peace. 

Of course they don’t. 

Rather the Joker stumbles in, bleeding from the mouth, a bruise already forming on his white-splotched cheek. His eyes wet and wild in the light. He stands in the doorway, an almost delirious smirk on his red, red lips. 

“John-ny,” Joker sing-songs, his murderous voice sending chills up both the criminal’s backs but for entirely different reasons. Or perhaps the same one. 

“Riddler is here,” Crane calls back and behind him, Nygma shifts uneasily. The clown commands fear like no other, this they both know. Crane almost feels sorry for the bastard, but his drunkenness and jealously prevent it. 

And they both know how dangerous he is now, wired, fresh off a fight. Adrenaline. Exhaust. He practically vibrates where he stands, acidic green eyes alight as they take in the new information, process it quickly. 

Joker lumbers further into the house, breathing hard. His shirt stained and dripping with blood. His knuckles are busted. He’s limping. His lip is split, yet he smiles showing off blood soaked teeth. 

There’s silence. Crane looks him over, assessing injuries as much as his fleeting sobriety will allow. He looks satisfied, lethal. 

“Drink this,” he says, pouring a glass and thrusting it in the clown’s direction. Amber liquid sloshes over the sides and drip to the floor. Crane doesn’t seem to notice. “Staves off infection.” 

Joker assesses him and takes a small sip, swirling it around his mouth before swallowing. 

“Good doctor are you trashed?” He turns to Nygma, his tone unreadable. “Did you get him trashed?” 

Nygma stays quiet. He looks the man over, his hair recently wet. Water? Sweat? Who knows but it dries in green brown curls. His tongue flicks out like a snake, tasting the blood and lipstick combined. 

“I’m not trashed,” Crane says, his voice uneven. He smiles, tugs the Joker to him. The clown allows it with a small giggle, a curious amused smile on his face. Crane brushes his hair from his face, touches his mouth gingerly. 

The kiss is hard, an upset to injuries, but Crane doesn’t care and neither does Joker. 

“You have lipstick on your mouth,” The clown purrs once they part, rubbing the doctor’s ruby stained lips. 

“Have it back,” Crane says, warm hands under the fabric of the ripped purple jacket, sliding it to the floor. His lips find the clown’s neck, nipping and sucking just below the jugular. Joker sighs, runs his fingers through the doctor’s hair before tugging him upward in a greedy kiss. 

“And here I thought I was the one knocking on death’s door. You need to sleep it off doc,” he says, breathless, “never seen you this hammered before. What have you been doin’?” he turns to Nygma, his gaze almost accusatory. He holds it for a minute before turning away, leading the doctor upstairs. 

“I should record you,” he hears Joker tease from down the hall, his voice getting fainter and fainter, “…not gonna believe this.” 

Edward finds himself suddenly alone, half-drunk, wondering if he should go. But The Joker reemerges, saying nothing. Simply unbuttons his waistcoat, stretches, grunts, puts the glasses in the sink. 

“Are you hurt?” 

He turns to the other criminal, chuckling darkly. Nygma is afraid, in this kitchen, no weapons at his disposal. The clown could slice his throat without batting an eye. They both know it. He gazes at the butcher’s block on the counter, but Joker has speed and soberness on his side. Both of which he lacks. 

“I heard something through the good ole grape vine Eddy,” The Joker says casually to Nygma, breaking him from his reverie. 

There’s a rustling noise somewhere in the house. The sparse lights go out. His face half hidden in shadow. Nygma feels his heart begin to race but whether it’s from fear or excitement his muddled brain can’t decipher. 

“I heard,” Joker drawls approaching him, “that you had a thing for a certain jester.” 

There’s a flash of black. An inaudible leap in the darkness. He can’t be sure if it was really there. 

They’re close. Close enough for Nygma to smell the gunpowder, the sweat, the metallic tang of blood and smoke. All so intoxicating. Nygma looks into his teasing eyes, watches the flash of tongue his hands brace the countertop in a vice grip. 

“Is that just idle gossip?” the clown questions quietly, his breath hot against the other man’s skin. Edward’s hands twitch, aching to touch. He grabs his hips in the dark, the Joker’s eyes a vibrant almost pitying green. 

Joker tuts and shakes his head, but leans into him. “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he breathes, their lips so close. He hands slide up the other criminal’s chest, his neck, until he’s cupping the back of his head. Nygma groans into the touch, closes his eyes. 

“He doesn’t have to know,” he pants out. 

Another leap barely heard over Nygma’s frantic heartbeat. 

“They don’t share.” 

Edward’s world goes dark. 

_“Damn you could’ve killed him.”_

Another, deeper voice. _“You wouldn’t have minded.”_

_“Didn’t think you were the jealous type.”_

_“I don’t like when people touch what’s mine.” ___

He can barely make out shadows in his hazy eyes. A monster in black. A creature in purple and green.

___“Well what do we do with him now?”_ _ _

__“We can go back to my place. My back is killing me thanks to you.”_ _

___“Johnny too?”_ _ _

___“Of course we can’t leave him here.”_ _ _

___“Alright just making sure. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”_ _ _

__He wakes. Bright light in bloodshot eyes. His head pounds. His mouth feels stuffed with cotton. Cheek stuck to dirty linoleum. His whole being alight with pain. He rises._ _

__Empty kitchen. Empty house. Only the glasses in the sink remind him it all happened. The figure in the darkness. Crane? The voices he heard? A dream? But no that voice wasn’t Crane’s._ _

__He shakes his head and grimaces at the pain, hobbling towards the door._ _

__If it came down to his life, some riddles weren’t worth solving._ _


	6. Chapter 6

Jonathan Crane had a shitty day. The Joker had gotten lipstick on one of his favorite shirts and after the third consecutive wash, it was clear the stain wasn't relenting. His lab had also suffered from a minor explosion, something overheating or cooling or mixing, he's not really sure. But he does know it destroyed materials and chemicals,  _expensive_  materials and chemicals not easily attained and now stresses over just where he would buy more products. And his lovers weren't there when he woke up, which wasn't unusual in the harlequin's case but the Bat usually stayed long enough for coffee and a kiss before breezing out the door as the infamous Bruce Wayne.

But neither of them were there, and he hadn't heard from them all day. Unusual, to say the least, he muses as he turns the key into the lock of his apartment door.Jonathan calls for them as he lays his keys down and the few chemistry books in his hands, removing his coat but their own yells block out his voice. He groans, day already too annoying to now have to deal with his bickering boys.

"For fuck's sake," he says as he walks in the direction of the argument, "Would it kill you to —?"

He isn't prepared for the sight of them. The Batman and the Joker. They are not in costume, covered in flour, faces clean and heads cowl-less but they are the rulers of the ruined city in which they all abide, fighting a war in Jonathan's small kitchen. Beaten and bloodied, swinging fists and swift kicks. They truly fit. Where one wavers, the other is steady, for every dip there's a peak to fill it. They are a mold. And the Bat comes down on the Clown hard with a right hook and the harlequin doubles over, gripping the counter, wheezing a phlegmy laugh before turning and body slamming his companion to the floor, knocking the wind out of them both.

The Joker is on top, laughing, breathing heavy. The knife winks in the light as it comes down on the Bat's throat.  
Batman is still, his hands by his sides in surrender.

"Now Batman," the Joker purrs and Jonathan shivers at the deadly tone, decides that there shouldn't be anything erotic about his lovers bleeding all over his floor.

And yet.

"Yes Joker," Batman says and they can all practically hear the eye-roll.

The harlequin smiles, caresses the billionaire's face with the business end of the blade, before patting his cheek with the flat side of the knife. "That fucking cake is gonna stay in that oven for 35 minutes like the directions say and not a moment less."

"It's going to be dry," the Bat whines beneath him and the Joker shakes his head, sending a cloud of flour into the air.

"The box clearly says —"

Any debate is drowned by the doctor's laugh, for Jonathan Crane is nearly bent over, laughing long and loud at his two lovers. Because of all the things one would get into a fist fight over, of course his lovers fought over how long a cake should be kept in the oven.And by the time he's finished laughing, his lovers have become upright and are holding boxes wrapped in festive wrapping paper and it's all so surreal that Jonathan really doesn't know what's happening anymore.

The Joker must see this because he takes a small step forward with his box wrapped in Batman themed wrapping paper, raises his eyebrows and says, "Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday doc?"

His birthday? He hasn't celebrated his birthday in more years than he'd care to remember. And he nearly blurts out that birthdays are a waste of time, and don't actually have any real merit on how your body ages, and the psychologically effects of societal norms around age and how harmful remembering one's age can be. 

But he sees them, and the kitchen covered in sugar and bits of egg and flour and smells the cake burning in the oven and he can't say anything really but, "You remembered my birthday?"

"Of course we remembered," Bruce says, "we've been preparing for it all day. We tried to make pasta but…let's just say it didn't work out. But we got takeout," he points to the take-out bag on the counter, "and we made a cake."

The cake turns out to be red velvet, his favorite. And it would be dry if The Joker didn't slather enough cream cheese icing to make them all diabetic.They sit on Jonathan's worn couch, the TV tuned to the news but on mute, eating cake, the doctor sandwiched between them. Jonathan has never felt so content, Bruce's arm around him and Joker's head resting on his shoulder.

"Aren't cha gonna open your gifts?" Joker questions drowsily, popping a take-out dumpling into his scarred mouth.

Jonathan lays down his plate full of cake crumbs and picks up the two boxes. The first is obviously from Bruce, the paper a muted silver with a simple navy blue bow. Inside is various vials, bottles full of chemicals, equipment he's been wanting for a while. The second is from the clown, messily wrapped, containing several stick on bows and hand-drawn hearts. The box contains two pairs of shirts exactly like the one ruined, one in deep burgundy, the other a forest green. He is surprised and pleased and feels such a surge of love that he is momentarily speechless.

"Doc?" Joker says, sliding easily into his lap with a searching look. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing I…" The doctor pauses, planting a small kiss to the Joker's lips and giving Bruce's arm a small squeeze. "Thank you…I haven't…just…thank you."

Bruce wraps his arms around them both, the Joker groaning as more pressure was applied to his injuries.

"Sorry I punched you in the face," Bruce says. 

The Joker's lips split into a smile. "Sorry I almost slit your throat," The clown replies nuzzling into Crane, "sorry we almost burned your apartment down doc."

"I don't mind," Jonathan says and is surprised at how much he means it. He is surprised that these men, these two warring entities can do just about anything they wanted with him and he'd be okay with it. He wonders if it's some form of Stockholm syndrome or perhaps simple addiction.

But then the Joker lays his head on his chest, Bruce embracing them both and he realizes that it is late and normally the two men are out by now, battling for the city's soul underneath overcast clouds and blurry bat signals but they aren't. They're staying. He's given them a reason to stay.

"Happy birthday doc."

"Happy birthday Johnny."

"Thank you," Jonathan murmurs back, deciding that whatever he is suffering from it is well worth it. He's already insane, might as well enjoy it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment with any requests and feedback is always appreciated and taken into consideration.


End file.
